


And Whither Then?

by lindoreda



Series: Roads go Ever On [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bilbo's songwriting, I won't say canon compliant but, M/M, One Shot, Thorin's harp playing, i have no idea how to tag this, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindoreda/pseuds/lindoreda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems an awful shame that such a nice tune doesn't have any words. That's the only thought in Bilbo's head when he starts trying to write lyrics to one of Thorin's songs, honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Whither Then?

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write more oneshots that aren't strange AUs, so here's the end result. A quick note about Bilbo's walking song: there are actually three versions of it sung in canon, and the one he sings in The Hobbit references things that happen in Erebor, so it didn't really make sense for that version to be the one used here.

Sometimes in the evenings on the road, Thorin would take out his harp and play whatever came to mind. Old songs about great deeds were common, along with the softer melodies of childhood lullabies, but he always played songs with words. He could even be persuaded to sing the words on occasion, with enough wide-eyed begging. Not that Thorin was shy of his singing voice, but he did like seeing Bilbo beg (not that he would ever say so, especially with the others watching). The long days on the road to the Lonely Mountain passed easier this way, when the possibility of hearing Thorin sing in his rich, clear voice existed. And it made some of the watchful nights a little less threatening, at least in Bilbo’s mind.

There was one tune though that he could never be persuaded to sing the words to. He would sometimes hum along, so Bilbo was convinced he was being kept from some great secret of the dwarves, but eventually Thorin admitted, a little chagrined by Bilbo’s enthusiasm (and also by his bravery on the burning cliffside), that the song had no words. He had come up with the tune himself, but he was no wordsmith. He could never seem to come up with anything that would fit.

This was not meant as a challenge, but Bilbo took it as one. Such a jaunty, yet strangely haunting tune could not go unsung, simply because Thorin could not think of words for it! It was already a terrible crime that it had suffered so for this long. So, Bilbo set about trying to write words for it. Of course it was hard for Thorin; the tune was a little lighter than anything else he heard from the dwarf King.

It proved more difficult than he had supposed it would. Thorin tried to help (though he tended to get frustrated quickly), and the lads always had completely useless, if diverting, suggestions, but he made no headway. Even the various company-members suggestions did nothing to illuminate the words that so very clearly belonged to this song. So Bilbo tried a different tactic.

“What kind of song is it?” he asked Thorin, trying not to throw down his quill in frustration, and failing just a little bit if the sound his quill made when it hit the book was any indication. Maybe, if he knew what Thorin had in mind when he had composed it, he could find the words. “What were you thinking about when you wrote it?” he added, sensing that maybe the first question was too vague.

“I was on the road, much like now,” Thorin said, plucking absently at the strings of his harp, a distant expression in his eyes. “It is a traveling song.”

“Is it a happy, ‘oh being on the road and seeing new things is wonderful’ traveling song, or is it an, ‘exile is terrible and where is my warm hearth,’ type of song?” Bilbo asked, retrieving his quill to take notes.

He missed the amusement that flickered into Thorin’s eyes. “Does it sound like a- what did you call it? An, ‘exile is terrible and where is my warm hearth’ song?”

Bilbo looked up, pursing his lips as he met Thorin’s smirk. “No, it does not,” he allowed. “Not really. There’s sort of a hint of something else though, other than happiness.”

“The road is all well and good, but every once in a while, you long for home,” Thorin replied with a shrug. “But you aren’t always able to return.”

Something sparked into life in Bilbo’s mind. Joy, and happiness in traveling, but a little bit of inevitability? As if, you do enjoy it, but it’s not entirely your choice. Well, that certainly did sound like the kind of song Thorin would write. Now he just needed to find a way to express those feelings.

It was in the dark of Mirkwood that the words started to become clear. “Over hill and under… under what? No, that’s not it,” he muttered, scratching out another bad line and trying again.

“How’s the writing going?” Ori asked timidly, surprising Bilbo out of his concentration with a yelp. His quill disappeared into the undergrowth.

“Not well Ori,” he admitted, rooting around for the quill. “I thought I had it, but the blasted words are all wrong.”

“I think it’s really admirable that you’re trying so hard, but why are you doing it? Thorin doesn’t mind that his song doesn’t have any words,” Ori pointed out, kneeling to help Bilbo look for the fallen quill.

“It just seems like a dreadful waste, that such a beautiful song doesn’t have any words,” Bilbo explained, a little exasperated. He’d been having the same conversation with various members of the company for days. You would think they didn’t talk to each other.

“I agree, but you might want to be careful saying that,” Ori advised him in a loud whisper.

“Why?” Bilbo asked, wondering why secrecy was suddenly necessary.

“Because, trying so hard to write a song for him… it looks like you’re trying to court him!” Ori whispered, distressed. “And I know that’s not what you’re trying to do, so…”

“Why did no one say anything?” Bilbo hissed. “Even Fili and Kili have been trying to help me with this song, and you would think they’d have something to say about me trying to court their Uncle!”

If it was possible, Ori looked even more uncomfortable at this. “They did have something to say about it; by trying to help you, they were saying that they approved!”

Well this was a pickle, and no mistake. Not that he necessarily objected to the idea of, well, Thorin, in that way. But that certainly wasn’t the message he had been trying to send, and surely the entire company had known he was clueless. They were all complicit, and that was an unpleasant thought. “That’s all well and good, but again, why did no one tell me?”

“They thought it was funny,” Ori replied miserably. “The Hobbit burglar, who Thorin scorned at every opportunity before, trying to court him? And worse yet, Thorin didn’t rebuff the attempt! They think it’s a great joke. I’ve wanted to tell you for ages.”

Dwarves. Bilbo sighed. Why couldn’t anything be simple? He was just trying to write some song lyrics, and- wait a second did Ori say Thorin hadn’t tried to rebuff him? But surely Thorin would know that Bilbo had no idea about dwarves and their courting customs. Still, he wondered what would happen when he finished the song. Because he was going to finish it. That was for certain.

His fingers found the quill in the dirt (along with some unpleasantly sticky webs), but it was too dark to keep writing, so he put it aside until the morning. Again.

The days in Mirkwood dragged on. Bilbo knew it was a massive forest, true, but surely they should have reached the end by now? Or at least seen an Elf or two, since they were supposed to live here somewhere. Gandalf called this the Elven Road, why were there no patrols? And then there were the cobwebs.

“Ach, this road is endless!” he heard Dwalin complain, and inspiration struck, as it often does at the most unexpected of times.

“The road goes ever on and on,” Bilbo murmured, trying the words with Thorin’s tune. “Down from the door where it began.” The whining and muttering of the dwarves instantly ceased.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, sounding just a little amazed. “Have you found the words to my song?”

“In a minute, in a minute,” Bilbo replied, waving his hand dismissively. “One line does not a song make.” Still, the mood of the day was lifted, and even thoughts of what the dwarves were no doubt whispering about could not stop Bilbo. The words came more easily now that he had begun, and though it was not a long song in the end, it was long enough for the melody that Thorin had written. He could easily make it longer if new words ever came to him, but for now it was enough.

That night, in the oppressive dark of Mirkwood, Thorin took out his harp, and looked to Bilbo expectantly. Pointedly ignoring the stares and whispers from the other dwarves, Bilbo nodded obligingly. When Thorin began to play, Bilbo sang along, particularly aware that that moment how poorly his voice compared to those of the dwarves.

_The Road goes ever on and on_  
Down from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road has gone,  
And I must follow, if I can,  
Pursuing it with eager feet,  
Until it joins some larger way,  
Where many paths and errands meet.  
And whither then? I cannot say. 

When he finished, Bilbo first met the eyes of the other dwarves, who all looked a little sleepy. Nice to know how boring he was, Bilbo thought a little sourly. He met Thorin’s gaze then, expecting more disappointment, only to be met with the sight of a stunned and slightly speechless Thorin. Bilbo did not think the words were so grand as to be worthy of Thorin’s surprise, but maybe that wasn’t it.

“It is as though you pulled the words from my mind, Master Baggins,” Thorin finally said when he recovered enough to speak.

This, considering that the other dwarves were nodding off, felt like entirely too much praise. “It’s nothing so special as all that,” Bilbo replied, fighting off a blush nonetheless. “They obviously didn’t think so.”

“That is how they always are after music,” Thorin pointed out, surprise evident in his tone. “Did you never notice?”

He supposed he never had. He had always been too focused on, well, Thorin really. “I guess I didn’t,” he admitted. “So you liked it?” Thorin nodded. “Then you have to call me Bilbo.” He couldn’t exactly say what drove him to make that request, but he didn’t have it in him to recall it once it was out of his mouth. If the other dwarves thought he was trying to court Thorin, well, tough cookies.

Thorin looked taken aback, and Bilbo almost expected him to refuse, but he simply said, “Bilbo,” with a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. 

That tiny smile, that little suggestion of pleasure, filled Bilbo with a nameless warmth (or at least a warmth he refused to name). Sitting there beside Thorin, singing while Thorin played the harp, he felt comfortable in a way he certainly hadn’t expected when he ran out his door in search of adventure. But then, adventures rarely turn out the way you expect, he thought to himself wryly.

Darkness fell even deeper upon the company, and they had little choice but to turn in for the night. Bilbo regretted it a little. They needed to talk. He needed to know if Thorin had gotten the wrong idea about the song, but, when he found his fingers trapped, entangled with Thorin’s larger ones, he decided that really, would it do any harm to pretend he’d been trying to court Thorin all along?


End file.
